


nobody else but you

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Tumblr Prompt, fancy party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2820443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Lane continues speaking. “Well—to come to the point—the committee is about to host a gala event at the end of the month, at the St. Regis.” He straightens in his chair, fiddling with a cufflink. “For the, erm, regional members: New York, New Jersey, and the northeast states.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She already has a strong suspicion as to where this conversation is going, but says nothing, waiting for confirmation.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I—well, I wanted to know if you'd agree to accompany me."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Joan puts her cigarette aside. “You're asking me to be your date?”</i>
</p><p>In which Lane needs a favor regarding a work event, Joan decides to help him out, and both of them turn out to be much worse at lying than they'd originally thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nobody else but you

“Sorry, do you have a moment?”

Joan looks up from her notes to see Lane Pryce standing in her doorway with an empty highball glass in his hand. She glances at her desk clock. Seven fifteen. She doesn't usually leave work this late, but since she began helping with the books she's begun to stay longer, every day, to teach herself a little more about the company's finances. It's less awkward than bothering Lane with endless questions. And it keeps her from going home to an empty apartment.

“Of course,” she says lightly, covering her notepad full of questions with one hand, like it's some kind of crib sheet for a college final. She shouldn't be embarrassed; he's the person she'll eventually approach with most, if not all of these questions, anyway. “Honestly, I could use a break.”

Lane nods his head once, expression relieved. She's not sure why he looks so relieved until he shuts the door behind him, and takes a seat opposite her desk. “Well—this may be a bit—awkward, but I wanted to ask you a very particular favor.”

“Okay.” Joan tries to keep her tone as neutral as possible, quickly lighting a cigarette but waving a hand to indicate he should continue.

“You—may not remember that I was asked to serve on a financial committee with the 4As several months ago. In, erm, September.”

“Budgetary Oversight and Review,” she offers, tapping ash from her cigarette. “I remember.”

It was an impressive distinction for a partner from such a young agency. At the time, Joan had wondered if he had some kind of inside connection. Now she knows better. Lane may not have friends in high places, but he's very good at what he does, even if it makes him fairly unpopular as a result.

“Oh.” Lane's blinking at her behind his glasses as if he's very surprised she knew this, but continues nonetheless. “Yes. Well—to come to the point—the committee is about to host a gala event at the end of the month, at the St. Regis.” He straightens in his chair, fiddling with a cufflink. “For the, erm, regional members: New York, New Jersey, and the northeast states.”

She already has a strong suspicion as to where this conversation is going, but says nothing, waiting for confirmation.

Lane continues. “I—well, I wanted to know if you'd agree to accompany me.”

Joan's mouth forms a slight o before she can school her features into a more appropriate expression. She puts her cigarette aside.

“You're asking me to be your date?”

“Well,” Lane stumbles over his words, face very red. “Yes, in—in a way.” He spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence, suddenly looking panicked. “But, please rest assured there'd be no—funny business. It would be strictly professional.”

Joan has to press her lips into a line to keep from laughing at the phrase funny business, along with the images it connotes, but manages to hold onto her composure by exhaling a breath through her nose. Lane is still attempting to explain his reasoning, and doesn't notice.

“I—wouldn't ask, only I've got to give a speech. I—don't much like giving speeches.” He's tapping his foot on the floor. Joan can hear the rhythmic noise even as he talks. The idea alone must make him nervous. “And it's a proper event. Not the sort of place to take a woman you hardly know.”

At this sentiment, she raises her eyebrows in a silent question. Lane's wife has been in England for several months – she has suspicions about that, they've got to be divorcing – but he doesn't seem the type to have trouble keeping a girlfriend.

Getting one, sure. He's shy. But he's well mannered, has money, and is nice looking. She assumed he would have had some sort of steady by now.

“So,” she says, closing her notepad and keeping her gaze level, “you want me to accompany you. As a favor.”

“Sorry,” Lane replies, a nervous laugh escaping him. His face is still so red it looks as if he's been sunburned. “I will understand if you can't—being married.” A pause. “I don't normally make a habit of chatting with...unavailable ladies.”

“Well,” she admits, briefly dropping her gaze to the ashtray, “to be clear, you're not.”

She glances up at him to gauge his reaction. His mouth has dropped open a little, and he closes it quickly, averting his gaze away from her face, to where her left hand rests on her stenography pad. Her wedding rings still gleam on her ring finger. Judging by the lines of confusion etched into his face, he's thrown by the incongruity.

“Oh,” is the only word he says.

Joan lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. She doesn't want to talk about Greg. “Is it black tie? This event?”

“What?” Lane sputters, then recovers, speaking in a sudden rush. “Well, yes. And—if it's a problem, I can pay for a new dress.”

“Doesn't leave me much time to shop.” She fixes him with a bemused look that suggests he should have asked earlier, and makes a quick note on a nearby post-it. “I'll need to start looking immediately.” Maybe she can go to Lord and Taylor tomorrow during lunch.

He's staring at her like he doesn't understand what's just happened. Joan opens her personal planner, and says, to reinforce her point, “You said it was the end of the month. Friday or Saturday?”

**

“So he wants you to spend an entire evening together, even though nothing's going to happen? Not even a kiss? God, you're the man's date, not his sister!”

Kate sounds very skeptical about the whole thing. Joan tries to correct her assumption.

“It isn't like that.” She's aware that this is exactly the kind of thing people say when a situation is like that. “He thought I was still married. It's a personal favor.”

There's a sharp noise like a scoff. “You didn't say anything about Greg, did you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Joanie, you didn't even tell me until last month!”

The last time Greg had come home on leave – the last time Joan had seen or spoken to him – they'd gotten into a no-holds-barred argument. It started with Greg complaining that they weren't a real family, because she couldn't even get pregnant. It ended with Joan throwing his baseball card collection into their living room, shortly followed by a suitcase, and a heap of his clothes. _I hope the Army makes you feel like a man, because I'm not going to do it anymore!_

“Well, I didn't go into detail.” Joan twirls the yellow phone cord around her index finger as she talks. “I wanted to ease his conscience. That's it.”

Kate lets out a short, staccato laugh. “Why would you want to ease his conscience?” This is followed by a gasp. “Do you like him?”

Joan rolls her eyes. “We work together, for god's sake. I'm not that stupid.”

**

“In conclusion, with the help of our many chapters, their ingenuity and influence, this organization shall continue to teach business to the world.”

Lane shuffles his papers in a nervous way, clearing his throat, and averts his gaze up to the ceiling for a few moments before finally meeting Joan's eyes, his expression a question.

“How did it sound?”

She taps her stenography pad with the nib of her pen, searching for a way to begin. It wasn't awful. “Well, I have a few suggestions, but overall—”

“Oh, you hated it,” he interrupts with a groan, putting a hand to his forehead, and looking discouraged. “I'll have to rewrite the whole—”

“Don't tear it up on my account,” Joan interrupts, holding up a hand before he can do something rash. “The ending didn't fit the rest of your remarks.”

He's blinking at her in a way that suggests he's not sure what that means, and so she continues, consulting her notepad to make sure she doesn't miss any salient points. “You start with a brief history of the 4As, then move into fiscal projections, current concerns, and then you end with a line that sounds like it came out of some generic public relations piece.” She pauses, and then decides to say it as bluntly as she can. “I think you could re-frame the speech in a more efficient way.”

“Well,” Lane says, “the last one I gave ended similarly, and it seemed to go all right. You ought to have heard it. The company anniversary?”

“Unfortunately, I missed that little party,” Joan says lightly, making another quick notation in the margin of her stenography pad. His talking points about budget oversight and balances dragged on for about ten minutes too long. If she can get him to talk about editing the ending, maybe they can discuss trimming the other sections, too.

Lane huffs out something like a laugh, then frowns deeply when he sees she isn't smiling, moving to sit in his red wingback chair. “What?”

She levels him with an unamused look.

“But—we were all there, even most of the juniors. St. John insisted.”

“Lane,” she interrupts, with an annoyed sigh. She rarely calls him by his first name, but if they're going to attend this function together, she may as well start practicing. “It was after I'd left. Do you not remember Guy MacKendrick?”

“Oh,” he says after a pause, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “Sorry. Yes, of course. I don't know how I could have forgotten that was your—last day.”

Joan glares at him, intending to be sharp—how nice that he can forget—but before she can reply, the apologetic expression on his face gives her pause. She clears her throat, deciding to direct her sharpness toward someone else, instead.

“St. John Powell was a snake. I don't know how you ever put up with him.”

A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, which he tries to hide without much success. She gives him a little smile in return, and glances back at her notes.

“Have you thought about starting with a joke? I'm sure the out of town guests would appreciate a little local color.”

“If that's the case,” Lane grumbles, “you should prepare said guests for disappointment, as I don't believe I know any.”

Joan shrugs, not knowing what else to suggest, and glances around the room. Her eyes land on the orange pennant by the doorway. “Well, if worst comes to worst, you could always read off the Mets scores. I'm sure they would appreciate that.”

He glares at her over the top of his glasses, but the corners of his mouth are twitching up. “Don't tempt me.”

**

“Now, we'd need to take this in at the waist,” the blonde salesgirl tells Joan, as they face the multi-sided mirror in a well-lit alcove of the dress department, “but this cut is very flattering on you.”

Joan purses her lips, examining her reflection with a critical stare. The spring green gown she's wearing is feminine without being frilly: it features a structured sleeve and bodice, with elaborate beading at the scoop neckline and the hem of her tea-length skirt. It’s elegant enough for a black-tie affair, but it's not compelling. She wants something better.

“We'll need to try something else.”

“Hm.” The salesgirl turns toward the changing rooms, where two other dresses are waiting on Joan's opinion. “Well, I can bring you the others, but they're a similar shape. You said you wanted something professional.”

Joan sighs. She doesn't want an evening gown that resembles a work outfit. It's the first black-tie event she's been to in years, for god's sake. She wants to be striking.

From her place in front of the mirrors, she can just glimpse the wheeled rack closest to the door, where a brocade burgundy gown with a v-neckline hangs on the end.

“I'd like to see that one.”

“Oh,” says the salesgirl. “Um. It's a little...bolder. I don't know if you'd—”

Joan doesn't even let her finish the sentence. “Try me.”

**

As she steps out of the taxi and onto the curb, Joan gathers her black lace wrap around her shoulders, smiling at the young uniformed valet who greets her as he holds open the door. “Welcome to the St. Regis.”

“Thank you,” she tells him.

The double red-carpeted staircases leading into the hotel are full of people in elegant suits and cocktail dresses, smoking idly, or chatting among themselves as they walk inside. Most of them should be convention guests, Joan imagines, although there's only one other large event scheduled for the night: a wedding. She called yesterday morning under pretense of scheduling a reservation.

Joan moves into the black and white marble-tiled foyer, glancing at a grandfather clock in the corner as she walks through the lobby. Five after six. She and Lane are supposed to meet at six thirty, at the King Cole Bar, although the dinner doesn't start until seven. It was a kind of compromise. Out of nowhere, Lane had begun to talk about picking her up at home, while she wanted to come early to the hotel to see the ballroom and the seating arrangements.

Honestly, she thought a drink and some normal conversation might calm his nerves, too. He was so high-strung yesterday, he yelled at Scarlett four times.

Inside the bar are groups of men in suits, and a few older ladies in evening gowns, clustered around high tables and laughing with each other over drinks. Standing at the bar proper, in the left corner, is Lane, who's frowning up at the eight foot tall painting of Old King Cole in a studious way. As Joan walks forward to meet him, she notices one of the bartenders is staring at her, his hand poised unmoving on the polished countertop as if he's forgotten what he's doing. Judging by the rag in his hand, he's supposed to be cleaning.

She smirks.

Lane glances toward her with cursory interest as she walks closer, probably at the sound of her high heels on the tile, but when he realizes who it is, and sees her dress, he jumps to attention, a shocked look taking over his face.

“Good lord.”

She flashes him a wide smile. “Good evening, Mr. Pryce.”

His mouth is hanging open, and he has to clear his throat in order to speak again. “Mrs. Harris—you look—”

“Speak for yourself,” she says, very pleased by his apparent lack of speech, as she glances him over in return. “That tux is very dashing.”

Lane blushes at this, and briefly glances down at the ground. She smiles again at his shyness. He really does look handsome. Black tie is an excellent style for him.

She puts her clutch onto the mahogany bar, gesturing that he should sit. “Have you ordered?”

“No, sorry.” He puts a hand to his face, grimacing like he's embarrassed to have been caught off guard, then swipes a menu from the countertop, and hands it to her, gesturing toward the bartender, who has moved to the opposite end of the bar. “That chap was just telling me about the signature drink. Although, I can't remember what he said, now.”

“Their bloody marys are excellent,” Joan offers.

“I—well, suppose we shall have to try them, then.”

Ten minutes later, they're sitting in a quiet corner of the bar, drinks in hand, talking a little and watching people move around the room. Lane's staring at a group of men dressed in white tie and tails—likely here for the wedding, there were signs in the lobby—so Joan lays a brief hand on the Englishman's arm to get his attention.

“How's your drink?”

She's had almost half of hers—probably from some combination of awkward silence and nerves—but he's barely touched his glass.

“Oh. Well, it's all right.” He gives her a small smile, avoiding her eyes, and poking at the ice cubes in his drink with his celery stick. “Already dreading the speech, if you haven't noticed.”

“You shouldn't,” Joan says automatically. He'd actually taken several of her notes into consideration, which was stunning. It may not be the most thrilling speech in the world, but it’s well written, and will play to this audience with ease.

She puts a black-gloved hand on his arm again, in an attempt to be reassuring. “You'll probably dwell on it no matter what I say, but trust me. They'll like it.”

Lane gives her a genuine smile this time, glancing down at her hand. “I like your gloves,” he says after another moment. “Meant to tell you before.”

“Nothing else?” she can't help teasing. “Just the gloves?”

This elicits another laugh, and he's definitely blushing now. A stupid little thrill flickers to life in her chest. Flustering him is child's play, but she can't make herself stop. It's just fun to get him to loosen up.

“Mrs. Harris,” he says in a low voice, but she just smirks, and holds up a warning finger.

“You know you can't call me that tonight.”

“Oh, but no one's listening,” he protests, seeming disappointed for some reason.

“Well,” Joan reaches for her glass, affecting a shrug. “I suppose I'll let it slip, this time.”

He grins at her, and then takes a gulp of his drink. “I shall consider myself warned.”

**

The event is being held on the second floor, in the Versailles ballroom. They take the stairs up, walking arm in arm, because Joan wants to see the view from the balcony.

“It's almost like going up to the top of the Empire State Building,” she says as they reach the landing, gesturing he should join her in the small alcove to the right of the stairs. “Watching everyone mill around from above.”

“Do you know,” he says, looking intrigued as they reach the railing of the nearest part of the balcony. “I've not actually been yet. I suppose I ought to. Just—never had enough time.”

“I went once, the year I moved here.” She glances up from her examination of a woman in a pale blue ball gown to see him looking at her in an expectant way. “It was before Eisenhower was president.”

Lane's smile lights up his entire face. “You're gone native, now.”

She smiles back; glad to see that he's finally feeling more relaxed. “I know. Thank god.” Downstairs, a woman in a long celadon dress enters through the lobby's revolving doors.

“I'd love to see our ballroom, if we have time.”

**

They have exactly enough time for Joan to put her purse down on her chair before someone is waving in Lane's direction. It’s an older couple, the man plump and short, with slicked-back gray hair, and the woman cheerful and thin, in a long dark evening gown. Joan glances to Lane for clarification as to who they are, and he nods his head once, muttering to her under his breath.

“Chairman. Nice fellow.”

“Hullo, Pryce!” the chairman exclaims, as soon as they’re within earshot. “Got your big speech all ready? Know how much you like giving 'em.”

Lane rolls his eyes, although his mouth is twitching up at the corners, as if he's fighting a smile. “Yes, I suppose I'm prepared as I shall ever be, thanks.”

The other man laughs, and then turns to Joan with a puzzled expression. “Sorry, I don't think we've met. You're not Clay's wife, are you?”

“Oh,” Lane stammers. “Jim—no, this is my—friend, Joan Harris. I did mention I was bringing someone.”

Jim stares at Lane like he's just sprouted wings, his surprised expression slowly morphing into a pleased look. He turns to Joan with a smile that says he's been waiting to meet her for months, extending his hand. “Jim Buckley.”

He indicates the woman standing next to him. “My wife, Polly. Can't tell you how glad we are to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she says, giving him a smile. She doesn’t know what he must have heard about her, since Lane only invited her to this event a week ago. “Lane's been very complimentary of your work.”

“No kidding?” Jim looks delighted.

Two tiny spots of red have appeared in Lane's face, but Joan presses on. She wants to make a positive impression, but she won't be embarrassing.

“It's true,” she says, inclining her head to Polly like it's something Lane says often. Wives always like it when their husbands look good at official events, and Mrs. Buckley is no exception. The older woman pats Joan's forearm with a fond look.

“Now, dear, what do you do?”

Joan's smile widens. “I'm the director of agency operations at SCDP.”

Polly's eyebrows lift in surprise. “Look at you. Beauty and brains.”

“Well, a girl's got to eat,” Joan says, with a small shrug.

The pause in conversation is just enough for the obvious question to be asked.

“So, how long have you and Lane been seeing each other?”

Joan’s ready to supply a gentle excuse, but Lane speaks first, with a sort of manic cheerfulness. “Oh, now, Jim—”

“Come on!” his friend protests, clapping Lane on the shoulder.

Lane's so red with embarrassment he looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole, glancing nervously at Joan as if to apologize in advance for his awkwardness. On a whim, Joan decides to spare him the expense of losing face.

They can tell a white lie for one night.

“Don't tease him,” she chides, directing Jim a wide smile. “He's shy.”

“Oh, no, I don't think you need to—” Lane begins in a rush, but Joan puts a gloved hand on his arm to shut him up, laughs fondly as she does this, as if his reserve is adorable.

“It hasn’t been very long. Only a couple of months.”

“I'm never telling you anything again,” Jim says to Lane, folding his arms across his chest with pretended offense. “You play your cards too close to the vest.”

Lane lets out a noise like a laugh, still very red.

“Oh, Jimmy,” says his wife, giving Joan a fond smile, like they’re sharing a secret. “Don't mind him. He just loves a good story.”

“Hey, Buckleys!” calls a voice from across the ballroom, and the couple glances over toward a blonde man and a brunette woman, both waving.

“Ah,” says Jim. “Chet and Betsy. Come on, honey, let's go make our hellos.”

When the other couple is safely out of earshot, Lane pulls his arm away from her grasp as if he's been burned. His voice is quiet, but flustered.

“Why did you do that?”

She frowns at him, stunned by his change in mood. “What?”

“They're only going to keep asking questions,” Lane hisses, his eyes darting around to make sure no one else is witnessing this. “Which I can't answer—and now they're going to think we're—”

“Wasn't that the point of me being here?” she counters, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I didn't tell you to say that!” He looks more panicked than before.

 _I thought it would be fun_ , is the only thought running through her head. She feels almost embarrassed by how juvenile this idea is, and lets out a deep breath, reaching for his hand. “It'll be fine.”

He pulls his arm back before she can touch him. “No—just—don't give them any more stories. Please.”

“Lane,” she begins, but he shakes his head no, walking quickly toward the bar set up in the back of the ballroom.

Joan lets out a deep breath, trying not to let the anxiety show on her face.

**

They're standing near their table with the Buckleys, Chet and Betsy, and another couple whose names Joan didn’t catch. Lane and Jim are talking with the others, while Joan and Polly are in a quieter corner. They’ve mostly been left to themselves.

“Betsy drives me nuts,” Polly says to Joan in a low whisper, with a little wink. “She can't talk about anything but their stupid kids.”

“She sounds fascinating,” Joan says dryly, taking another sip of her champagne.

The other woman carefully brushes a grey-blonde curl out of her eyes with her hand. “Well. I won't say I'm sorry to get the chance to speak to you alone. Jimmy’s going to talk Lane's ear off.”

“Swapping notes?” Joan asks, blowing out a breath of smoke. “Good luck.”

The other woman laughs. “Oh, I like you so much more than Rebecca. We went to dinner with them once. She was very mean-spirited.”

Joan raises an eyebrow. “Well, they did get divorced.”

Polly lets out a hmph. “And getting the truth out of Lane was like pulling teeth. I told Jim if he ever took any of our kids away from me, I'd go at him.”

A lump forms in Joan’s stomach.

“I know it was difficult,” she says carefully, thinking back to a particular week in May. Lane had been noticeably melancholy for weeks, and one day, she'd been witness to his bad mood for over two hours before he'd confided in her. _Today's my son's birthday._ In the corner by the coat rack was a small box covered in postmarks, like it had been returned to sender. Lane hadn't volunteered any more information, and she hadn't asked.

Polly lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“What are you two talking about?” says a voice behind Joan. She turns to see Jim and Lane with fresh drinks in their hand. Lane looks nervous.

“Nothing important,” Joan says with a shrug. “I did promise you I wouldn’t gossip too much.”

Jim and Polly exchange a sly look before excusing themselves to greet one of the other committee members. After they leave, Lane won’t meet her eyes. Joan takes another gulp of her drink.

They stand silently for a few seconds before he finally speaks.

“You don’t have to—I didn’t say you couldn’t speak to anyone.”

“I know you didn’t,” she says with a sigh, although she isn’t upset.

“It’s—I’m not a good liar,” he finally manages, watching the nearest doorway as more people file into the now-crowded ballroom. “I can’t spend the evening trying to keep track of—a thousand stories.”

“Lane,” she offers. “I just want this to go well. That’s all I was trying to do before. People like to hear when their friends are happy.”

He does look at her now, and there’s an expression on his face like surprise. Like he’s just realized she wasn’t trying to make fun of him.

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Well, I—erm. Thank you.”

She flashes him a relieved smile. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll stick to the truth.”

**

“All right, Joan,” says Jim, once they’re getting seated at their table and working their way through a few hors d’oeurves. “Polly said that until she gets back from the powder room, I’m on details duty. Give me the scoop on you and Mr. Secrecy. He take a shine to you right away?”

“Not at all,” Joan says, with a puff of laughter. “You're going to be disappointed, because he didn't like me very much at first.”

Overhearing this, the rest of the table breaks into curious murmurs and laughs. Joan continues speaking.

“But I will tell you one of the first times he caught my attention.”  She gives Lane a reassuring smile. “I don't think you've ever heard this story.”

Everyone shushes immediately, faces eager. Lane's staring at her as if he's afraid to hear where this is going, but she keeps talking, turning back to the table.

“Before starting at our current firm, I was the office manager at Sterling Cooper. During my last year there, I took a few months off to help my then-husband prepare for overseas deployment.” She folds her hands in her lap without looking down. “On my last day of work, there was—an industrial accident with a machine on our floor. A man injured his foot very badly.”

“John Deere,” mutters Lane to Jim under his breath.

“I won't dwell on specifics,” says Joan, waving a dismissive hand, as if the story of a mangled foot is boring instead of horrifying, “but suffice it to say Lane and I ended up accompanying this man to the hospital.”

“You've left out—” Lane interrupts, and then stops speaking, realizing the whole table is watching him. “Well, I think they ought to know.”

He clears his throat, wincing as he tries to dodge around the goriest part of the story. “Joan was—in the center of everything. Very quick to respond.”

She thinks she knows where this is going, and chimes in. “I administered first aid.”

Lane shakes his head, as if this is nowhere near enough information. “Did more than that—she tied a tourniquet onto that chap’s foot with her bare hands.” He takes a deep drink from his glass. “Doctors told me he’d have died otherwise.”

“Jesus,” says one of the men across the table.

She’s almost touched by Lane’s insistence.

“Anyway,” Joan continues, directing him an appreciative look. “After all that commotion, it was still my last day at the company—and my outfit was just ruined. So, before carrying my cardboard box out of the emergency room, I said goodbye to everyone who was there.” She pauses, catching the eye of the nearest woman for maximum effect. “Lane volunteered to buy me a new dress.”

“Oh,” sighs a woman two seats down from Joan.

Joan smiles, and casts a quick look over at Lane, who’s turning pink under the attention. “I thought it was very sweet.”

**

By the time the food arrives, Lane seems to have perked up. He and Joan are fielding off questions from the couple sitting next to them. The man, Richard, works in accounts at a small agency, and his wife Paula (very young—maybe even under thirty) used to be his executive secretary.

“Pryce, how the hell did we do it, huh?” the man asks again, for what’s probably the millionth time.

Lane takes another gulp of his drink, looking bemused. “What?”

“Lucky in love,” Richard booms, grabbing Paula’s hand. “Hell of a thing.”

“Suppose it is,” Lane says, blushing again. Joan decides to save him from stumbling over an excuse. He really doesn’t like to talk about personal feelings on a normal day; it isn’t fair to put him on the spot for a loaded question like this.

“Well,” she says simply, “I think it’s very straightforward. Lane and I became friendly after a few months at the new agency. We spent a lot of time working together. You could say things progressed from there.”

There’s a small silence.

“Once we’d stopped trying to murder each other,” Lane offers, deadpan.

A laugh bubbles up from her throat so fast that Joan doesn’t even have time to temper it. She puts her hand on Lane’s forearm to show how much she loves that joke.

“It did take time to sort out the details.”

“Well,” Lane begins, and when Joan looks over at him he’s grinning. “Took you a bit longer than it did me, I think.”

Her mouth falls open in happy shock. Oh, my god. He’s actually playing along.

“I think you liked that,” she says, briefly touching his arm again, and everyone laughs at the joke. She can feel the champagne kicking in. A pleasant buzzing sensation hovers low in her stomach.

**

After another drink, it’s almost easy to forget that she and Lane aren’t actually together. Or rather, it’s easy to immerse themselves in the idea. He gets more animated with every drink, and as he gets more lively, he becomes more attentive. He’s started touching her arm or her elbow or the small of her back as they move throughout the sea of tables in the ballroom, and every time his fingers brush over her skin it makes her hyperaware of her body and how close they’re standing together.

Eventually, they end up at the front of the room with several members of the hospitality committee.

“So how did the two of you meet?” a woman in yellow asks, and Joan waves a dismissive hand.

“You’d be surprised. It was very—”

“Romantic,” interrupts Lane, and Joan turns to him with startled eyes.

Does he really want to take things that far?

“We’d worked together for a long time,” she says quickly, before he can make up something too outlandish.

Lane leans forward in a conspiratorial way before she can stop him. “One day, we were alone in my office, working on some—company quarterlies. And I looked over at her, in her smart blue dress, and I said to myself—all right, you’ve been thinking about her for months. Just—ask her to dinner, for god’s sake. But when I tried to—I blurted it out all wrong. I’m sure she thought I’d gone quite mad.”

She doesn’t know why she’s suddenly nervous. They’ve been playing pretend all night. At one point after dinner, Lane was reaching over to touch her hand under the table, for god’s sake. But this is different; this is inventing raw little moments like their first date or their first—

Her face gets hot at the unfinished thought.

“Aw, you’re blushing,” says someone’s wife, and Joan tries to smile in a way that feels normal; it’s difficult to do with Lane’s hand resting on the small of her back again. She can’t concentrate on anything except the way her skin sings under his fingers.

“I was just—happy he asked,” she says, clearing her throat.

Lane’s eyes linger on her, and under his sudden scrutiny, she feels a shiver work its way through her body, and pool low in her belly.

**

At about ten till eight, a man with a clipboard walks up to them.

“Sorry to interrupt, Lane. We're ready to kick off, so if you’ll just pop up front, we’ll have you go on after Kip.”

Lane’s posture goes rigid with alarm. The change in his demeanor is so sudden Joan actually reaches out for his hand, feeling as if she should steady him somehow.

“I’ll go with you.”

Before long, they’re in a small hallway backstage, separated from the dinner and the introductory remarks by a couple of heavy curtains and a darkly lit room behind the stage itself. She’s still holding Lane’s hand. She can’t make herself let go.

“Sorry,” he whispers, squeezing her fingers tightly. “Don’t know why they asked me to do this.”

“Because they like you,” Joan says automatically, searching for the right words to reassure him. “Just—imagine everyone naked.”

His laugh is high and brief. “ _That_ won’t help.”

“Fine. Then pretend we're in your office,” Joan puts her hands on his shoulders to get him to face her. “Don’t try to impress a bunch of strangers. Just talk to me.”

“You'll—you'll be in the back, then,” Lane finally says, seeming to latch on to this idea. “Where I can see you.”

She hadn't considered anything except sitting at the table and looking appropriately enthused by his remarks. Now, that idea seems stupid.

“Of course.” She purses her mouth, considering a new idea. “We'll take champagne into the library, afterward.”

“May as well take the cart,” Lane mutters after a moment, and she huffs out an amused noise.

From the stage, they can hear Kip’s voice booming out to the rest of the ballroom— _started his career across the pond with a little firm called PPL—_

“I should go,” she says, but she doesn’t move. Her hands are still resting on his biceps.

Lane’s frozen in place, and on an impulse—with no thought in her head except _I wonder what he’d do if_ —she leans forward and kisses him.

It’s so chaste it’s as if it didn’t even happen, except Joan can still feel her lips tingling from the brief contact.

Lane looks stunned.

_He’s our incoming chairman for the new year—from Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce—_

“For luck,” she whispers.

As she walks away from him, and back into the lush hallway, she can feel her entire body prickle with goosebumps as the entire ballroom bursts into applause. She ignores the butterflies in her stomach, and skirts past a waiter carrying a tray of dirty dishes in order to stand inside the doorway, several yards behind the last table. The applause from his introduction has died down. He should be speaking by now.

Now standing at the podium, Lane clears his throat.

Joan lets out a deep breath.

Lane pauses, shuffling his papers in front of him. He’s smiling a little, though, which is a good sign. “Honestly, I’ve—no idea where to begin.”

There is a murmur of laughter at his self-deprecation.

“No, it isn’t a joke,” he continues, with a huff of breath that could pass for amusement. “I nearly ran off, just now.”

She lets out a sigh of relief, but around her, the laughter grows louder. It sounds as if he’s just making witty observations about stage fright.

They’re with him. They like him.

“Well,” he continues with an awkward laugh, glancing down at his papers again. Joan feels her stomach flip when he looks up into the crowd. Like he can see her—like he’s waiting to glimpse her reaction to his opening line.

“I should be—very remiss if I did not thank Jim Buckley and the rest of the committee for arranging tonight’s magnificent event…”

**

Joan’s been waiting alone in the library for ten minutes when the ornate door creaks open, and Lane walks slowly into the room, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it with an expression that says he feels about twenty pounds lighter.

“They loved it,” she says first, and suddenly they’re both moving. She barely reaches the ornate fireplace mounted in the middle of the long wall before Lane’s got her in his arms, gripped in a bear hug. He’s shaking. He must have been so nervous.

“I could never have done it without you,” he whispers. One of his hands is pressed against the back of her neck, while the other palms her waist.

“Yes, you could,” Joan counters, but she doesn’t get the chance to say anything else before he’s kissing her—and this kiss is anything but chaste. It’s hot and insistent. Pressed against her like this, she can feel how excited he is, and within a few minutes they’re both very out of breath.

“Oh, Lane,” she gasps, as he bends his head to nip at her earlobe again, and the low moan this elicits from him goes straight to her spine, turning her legs to jelly. Her fingers tighten in his hair as he begins to kiss his way toward her breasts.

“God—”

A sudden noise from the hallway– sharp and ringing, like a heavy tray getting knocked over– makes her jump so much she yelps in surprise, and almost falls backwards into the closest bookshelf. She would have, if he hadn’t been holding onto her so tightly.

Staring at each other like idiots, they both start to laugh. She’s bracing herself against his upper body. He’s got his arms wrapped around her back, and lipstick all over his face, and a blotchy flush has crept up from under his collar, making him pink from his neck to the tips of his ears.

“Sorry,” he mutters after an awkward second of holding her gaze, and she lets out another giggle.

“I think we should—”

“Would you like—?”

They both stop talking. Lane’s hands are warm against the middle of her back.

“Erm. You go first.”

“Well,” Joan says, wiping lipstick from one corner of her mouth with the pad of her thumb, and noticing the way his eyes follow the movement. “I was going to ask if you’d seen the rest of the hotel yet.”

Lane blinks at her in confusion. “The—what?

She shrugs a little, moving her hands so they're looped behind his neck. “Upstairs.”

He looks puzzled for several more seconds before surprise and understanding register on his face. “Oh. I mean, no, I haven’t, but that sounds—that would be nice.” He pauses. “Bit tongue-tied, sorry.”

She pats his cheek with one hand, and the gesture makes him lean in to kiss her again, long and slow. After a minute, she’s forced to pull away.

“My purse,” she breathes. “And our coats—”

“Right. Let’s go.”

He takes her hand.

**

Monday afternoon, Joan ducks into Lane’s office in order to drop off a revised photography budget for North American Aviation, and finds him on the phone.

“Yes, Jim,” he’s saying, pretending to be frustrated as she closes the door behind her. “I am still intending to hold up my end of the bargain. Aren’t I a man of my word?”

Joan rolls her eyes at this, placing the files in her arms onto the end table as she continues walking toward the desk. Apparently, being the chairman of a major New York organization comes with a very specific perk—a free suite in the host hotel on convention weekend. Jim Buckley had caught Lane wiping lipstick off his face in the men’s restroom, and had insisted on giving him the room key, claiming not to need it. In exchange, Lane owes him several lunches and a couple of tame stories.

Not that spending two nights together in a luxury hotel had been tame by any means. Joan still gets hot thinking about the way the ornate headboard had rattled against the wall the second time they’d finished. Lane was all instinct, at that point.

“Well, I don’t know her schedule offhand—erm—it may not—”

Joan’s shaking her head no, and when he notices, he stops talking.

“Oh, if you’ll hang on, Jim,” he says after a pause, “she’s just come into the room. Let me see what she says.”

He puts the receiver aside, jabs at the hold button, and gives her something of an apologetic look.

“You wouldn’t—care for another dinner, perhaps?”

Joan settles into the chair across from his, affecting a shrug. “That depends. Is it Friday or Saturday?”

He grins at her. She smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Marilyn Monroe song ["I Wanna Be Loved By You,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQIvhotZSUw) which in turn is pulled from the movie "Some Like It Hot." One of my all-time favorites.
> 
> The St. Regis is a real hotel in midtown Manhattan, FYI. Although I've never been there personally, they have a lovely website, and I had fun looking through [the photo gallery](http://www.stregisnewyork.com/gallery) for strictly research purposes.


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